Pulling Down the Web
by isansa
Summary: In the three years following his death, Sherlock must find the means of which to resurrect himself.


**AN: **I do not own anything to officially do with _Sherlock_, or any canonical beings or events of the original _Sherlock Holmes_ stories and their affiliates. The stories written here are inspired by canonical events as well as non-canonical aspects put forth by the incredible _Sherlock_ fandom. Aisling is my own creation, however, and I will not take her being insulted lightly.

**Pulling Down the Web**  
>a post-Reichenbach fic<p>

"Twelve Months"  
>written by isansa<p>

* * *

><p>It was the one year anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' death that brought John Watson to the cemetery; not that he didn't visit once every two weeks, even if it were only to vocalize a string of very nasty words. As John and his ever present military air came shambling across the grounds, the limp he once swore was real reappearing upon the settling fact of his friend's death, he noticed a figure standing before the still shining grave marker of Sherlock's. On closer inspection, John could see the figure was distinctly female by her scrawny legs poking out from beneath a heavy wool coat and her tangled orange hair tied and hung over her shoulder.<p>

She didn't turn on his arrival, so John stood patiently several steps behind her, leaning on his cane. "Did you know him?"

After his face had hit the papers, Sherlock had accrued quite a following of fans, mostly female and mostly looking for a kiss or shag. When she turned at his words, John wondered if she had been a fan of his at all. Her eyes were bloodshot with prominent dark circles beneath them. By the state of her hair and such, John guessed she had been a fan once and was reluctant to give Sherlock up. Her shoes, however, were ragged and scuffed, and not predictably those to be worn by a young Londoner girl.

"I only read about him." She said. She had dark eyes and pale cracked lips. The coat she wore was at least two sizes too large. Her fingernails were uneven in length, several had been chewed on and a couple were broken. A smudge of soot, possibly, stood out on her chin. Either a girl of overwhelming poverty or completely homeless. John suspected she had been a part of Sherlock's underground network, even if she had never met the man in person. Her eyes grazed down to his leg and cane, "You're John Watson."

"Yeah- yes." John confirmed. She stepped slightly to the side, an invitation to join her, and watched him carefully as he came to be beside her. John glanced from the marker to the girl and back. She was staring.

Her lips turned up in a smile and she said, "He was a good man."

"You believe that?"

"Of course." she said. Her voice, lilting and pleasant. "Don't _you_ believe in Sherlock Holmes?"

John rearranged his stance, "I did for a long time, and I suppose I still do." He was beginning to feel uncomfortable under this girl's gaze. Her eyes were dark and grey, and unnerving. It was not but a second more before he found himself wishing her to move along. He glanced to her once more and found a toothy smile now. Her teeth were straight and even, unstained. She was most definitely homeless and most likely new to the streets. Maybe she hadn't known Sherlock at all.

The girl tilted her head slightly, now facing John, "I should get going. Have a brilliant day."

Brilliant? _Brilliant_? Have a _brilliant_ day after visiting the grave of a deceased friend on the anniversary of his death? John turned over his shoulder, seeing that she was far enough away before turning back to the black marker. He glared down at his reflection in the stone and the engraved name in it. "_Tosser_."

* * *

><p>The orange haired girl waited until she was passed the center memoriam to turn back and see that John Watson was still slumped over himself at Sherlock Holmes' grave. The man had a hard time pulling it together; she could tell. She quickly left the cemetery and found a nearby alleyway to conceal herself. Once hidden behind a few handy bags of rubbish she pulled a slick black mobile phone from her coat pocket. A message had been received while speaking to Dr. Watson.<p>

_Meet at drop 3.  
><em>_-H_

The girl exhaled and tilted her head back against the brick wall of the warehouse. The phone buzzed in her hand. She dropped her arms to her sides and closed her eyes. The phone buzzed once more, violent and insistent. She looked to the phone's cracked screen.

_Payment in hand.  
><em>_-H_

_ Food also present.  
><em>_-H_

Hesitantly, the girl pushed away from the wall and placed the phone back into her pocket. She wished wholeheartedly that she had not gotten herself into this mess; that she'd just refused the offer and kept on walking. But she'd been so hungry those first nights. Even now, she would rather be napping behind the rubbish bins than meeting the Man, but she'd made a promise and she could not refuse the perks of the requests. The girl left the alley and made her way several blocks to the east of the cemetery, south three more, and an extra four back tracked in between to throw off anyone who might be following. Nearly an hour later she arrived at a small coupling of abandoned flats, all faded and chipped away. She sneaked around to the backside of the building and crawled through a bit of wire fencing to climb through a loose window and into the bottom flat.

She came up in the kitchen. All the appliances had been dragged out years before to be sold by scavengers. The room smelled of mildew and rotting wood. The kitchen door had fallen from its hinges and revealed a sliver of the front room. She could see the tall man standing at the window with his hands tucked inside his coat pockets and a paper bag sitting on the windowsill beside him.

"Sorry I'm late." She spoke, her lilt finding a hard time to hold.

The man turned. All the photos she'd seem of him prior to the fall had depicted a dark haired bloke with pale eyes and a slight build of body. Yet, here he was, his hair cropped and lightened. His eyes colored by contacts. He'd even put on some weight and looked rather bulky in the donation coat he'd snagged off a truck. She had been hard-pressed to recognize him at first.

"I'll be needing the phone."

The girl nodded and retrieved the phone from her pocket. She stepped forward, her arm outstretched as not to get too close, "He still sends messages. Mostly about the groceries."

He took the phone from her and scrolled through the information. She watched his eyes as the hurried over the screen, assessing every piece of information to be found. She clutched her hands together. "He still believes in you. That you're a good man."

Sherlock stopped scrolling as the girl said this. He had come to the messages on the mobile. A great deal of them were from John. He'd gone out for milk one afternoon, had bumped into Molly in the market, and left without remembering to purchase the milk. And jam. Harry had turned to making jams in her spare time as a way to keep her mind from the alcohol. John was her guinea pig. Their relationship had been somewhat improved.

"Did you know it's been a year?" The girl's lilt had returned. "It doesn't seem like a year."

Sherlock saw her eyeing the paper bag and tossed it to her. The contents were still warm in her hands and barely lasted as she gobbled down the pastry. He'd picked her up nine weeks after the fall. She was new to the network, someone John, Mrs. Hudson, or Moriarty's men wouldn't have recognized. He watched her pick the crumbs from her coat. Her name was Aisling and she'd dropped out of school to help her sick mother, but had wound up penniless and lacking in a proper education when she died. She was seventeen and completely alone, save for Sherlock. She'd probably be dead, or, at best, starving if she hadn't run into him. He'd given her the task of retrieving the mobile phone. Word was it had gone missing from the crime scene, and was being passed around by London youths for profit.

"For your trouble." He pulled a handful of folded notes from his pocket and held them out. She gazed at them as she sucked the fruit filling from her fingertips.

"I'd believe in you even if you didn't pay me." She smiled. She had once been pretty, but now everything about her was dull. He rolled his eyes as she took the notes. "I _would_. I couldn't count as many people like you on one hand. You're one of a kind, and there's something good about that."

She was earnest. He let a smile slip to his lips, "Thank you for your help, Aisling."

He swept passed her, his gait no longer light but bent and heavy. She turned swiftly, keeping the notes tightly at her chest, and she called to him, "Will I see you again?"

Sherlock Holmes, the detective in disguise, turned to her at the back window, "Keep an ear and eye out. I'll find you if I need you."

Aisiling took a quick glance at the money in her hand. She had enough to find a decent meal, maybe buy herself some nail clippers and an emery board, and save the rest for a rainy day. Many of the men and women she'd talked to in the past few months had told her to speak with a council. That she wouldn't make it without the help. She'd been privileged, she knew, but then she'd met Sherlock Holmes and she almost felt almost normal again. It was great to feel almost normal.


End file.
